


I Found Brimstone in My Garden

by thought



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because you paint over the cracks it doesn't mean the cracks aren't still there, drinking in the corner and emotionally wounding each other and possibly planting a bomb in the wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Found Brimstone in My Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Title (C) Mother Mother (because I'm apparently running with a theme. Warnings for a passing mention of alcohol abuse and underlying (though not directly articulated) themes of ablism. I'm playing a bit loose with the exact timeline, primarily in that I think we're supposed to assume Wyoming got Gamma after CT left. I'm also not sure that Wyoming held onto his fourth place position on the leaderboard with any consistency, but he did hold it for a while according to the RVB wikki.

 

                The reception itself isn't large by recent standards-- not open to the public, for one, which in these days of waning public endorsement of the military industrial complex --no really we'll stop the aliens any year now-- is a rarity. It's primarily a chessboard of neatly-pressed politicians and gleaming military higher-ups oozing fake charm and condescension at each other over tiny hors d'oeuvres because someone, somewhere, is under the false impression that enough alcohol and enough witnesses will serve to keep the interplay of backstabbing and bribery reasonably civil. The top ranked squad of Project Freelancer is there, and while nobody actually thinks this is a good plan (starting with the Freelancers themselves and ending with The Director’s extra-strength migraine medication and six destroyed stress balls) the reception does provide an opportunity for The Director to parade his line of finely honed and well trained weapons in front of the variety pack of UNSC higher-ups. There are only so many reports filled with buzzwords like 'experiments show promising results' and 'innovative and unique solutions' that can be sent before there comes a demand for concrete proof that resources and funding are still worth filtering indiscriminately into Leonard Church's flying house of mystery and ethics violations. It's also the first time the Freelancers have been planetside without the express purpose of destruction in over a year.

 

                York shows up fifteen minutes late. With Starbucks.

 

                The security guards, tuxedo-clad shoulders hunched under the weight of painfully polished submachine guns, make him throw it out in the plush carpeted antechamber.

 

_No appreciation for the classics,_ he thinks at Delta.

 

_Allison and Reginald,_ Delta says in response. York stumbles on the non-sequitur briefly before he realizes Delta is just using York’s eyes and has registered something before York’s brain has had the time to do so. He’s getting better at this every day. And then he has to take a minute to fail at keeping a straight face, because of course Reggie is short for Reginald, of course it is, how had he never made that connection? Poor bastard. He sees them now, too, Texas strolling in through the side entrance to the lobby and Wyoming slipping out from a silent bank of glass-fronted elevators. He waits patiently for them to cross the lobby-- at this point they may as well present a united front of blatant disregard and/or crippling apathy and disenchantment.

 

                "Well this is awkward," Wyoming says, obviously finding the entire thing hilarious, when he's close enough.

 

                ‘Reginald,’ York thinks, but says "I love you guys," because with three of the top four it's either comedic or dangerously insubordinate and they're none of them wearing their armor, Director's orders. The Director had also said “show up on time and leave your AI on the ship and don't embarrass him in front of his friends”, but York figures one out of four ain’t bad. He's also betting he's not the only one. "Hi, Gamma," he says, playing the hunch.

 

                Wyoming chuckles under his breath and inclines his head. "It's quite traumatic on our nervous system, removing them, you know. Seems like an unnecessary stressor."

 

                York... had not known that, actually, and silently apologizes to his body for those first few nights when pulling Delta had seemed like the easy solution for his probability-calculations-induced insomnia. Delta flickers irritation. York thinks regret back at him because pissing off the being with whom you share headspace is, unsurprisingly, a shitty plan and also because at this point the guilt and regret are honest and that's kind of nice.

 

                "More like you needed him to make the shot," Texas says. It's the first time York has seen her out of the armor and he's surprised that he's not surprised, knows there's a small part of him that's been hoping that there's something special to see under the armor, something to explain or signify her as unique, as worthy of The Director's favor, of that top spot on the leaderboard. There's nothing-- blond hair shoved back a little messily, dress uniform so stiff and perfect it looks brand new, the same sort of powerful bulk of muscle across her shoulders and upper arms that York is familiar with on his own body.

 

                "Hardly," Wyoming grumbles. "You've seen my file."

 

                "Sure have. You really needed that job, huh? What's wrong, Reggie, mummy's trust fund running dry already?"

 

                "Jealous, Allison? I know you put in a bid."

 

                "I have standards. And if you were that good without Gamma why aren't you up at the top of the leaderboard with me by now? You're sure as fuck not getting there on hand-to-hand. I'm getting lonely, buddy."

 

                "Mmhm, let's _please_ talk about AI." Wyoming's eyebrows do something complicated and ridiculous that makes York want to send him to medical to get his facial nerves examined but which makes Tex twitch like she wants to elbow him and possibly break a few of his ribs.

 

                York's need to be holding a drink is rising in direct proportion to the number of words coming out of their mouths. "I take it back," he says. "I really, really hate you guys." He walks in to the ballroom; overly ostentatious to the point of parody, three fire exits, one hall presumably leading to the kitchen, an entire wall of hopefully reinforced windows.  Carolina is by the windows with a silver-haired Admiral, and The Director doesn't pause his conversation by the food tables but he notices their entrance and he's not pleased.  York keeps walking until he's invading the open bar's personal space. CT is perfecting her ‘awkward teenager at a party of grown-ups lean’ a few feet down, but York needs to expedite his loss of fucks to give via alcohol more than he needs to put her at ease.

 

                Once he's made good friends with a decent scotch he takes his refill over to settle in beside her. The smile she flicks in his direction is painfully false.

 

                York says, "Hi," and "Is Wash going to have an aneurism?"

 

                She glares sullenly in the general direction of Washington's boots where he's standing painfully at attention a few feet away being talked at by an Admiral with a truly unfortunate lack of hair and enough metal on his chest to stop bullets. There's a possibility the lack of armor is getting to York more than he wants to admit-- no armor means Delta can't watch his left side and in a room packed with strangers and only carrying what weapons he could hide under the dress uniform he's feeling the sort of unsettled he promised himself he'd never indulge.

 

                "Wash doesn't deal well with Oni2," she says.

 

                "That's not Wash's angry face," York says. Wash looks like any petrified young recruit when first faced with somebody high up on the food chain.

 

                CT snorts. "No. That's Wash's 'trying not to kill you' face."

 

                "Well that casts a few things in an unnerving light," York mutters.

 

                By the time CT starts in on her second drink York's charmed two low-ranking UNSC officials and CT's engaged in one stiltedly tense conversation with a man so forgettable as to be noteworthy. York's not actively playing ONI bingo but he's pretty sure they're not running with the 'three out of four ain't bad' motto.

 

                _Are you going to continue to misquote the song?_ Delta asks irritably. York hums a bit under his breath, just to be an asshole.

 

                Wash finishes with the General eventually and practically runs over to them. York gets the feeling that if she wasn't leaning against the bar he'd be trying to hide behind CT. "I feel dirty," he says.

 

                "But no longer homicidal," CT offers. Wash thunks his head against her shoulder, which would look more appropriately frustrated if he didn't have to bend down so far to do it.

 

                The twins close in on their little group from opposite sides of the room before York can start prying into Wash's governmental biases. North reaches them a half-step before South. "Director’s pissed at you," he says.

 

                "Can I be court-marshaled for punching one of these assholes in the face?" South asks at the same time.

 

                "Probably," says Wash. "Sorry."

 

                "At me?" York asks North.

 

                "Both of you," North says, gesturing with his drink at York and CT.

 

                "I wasn't even that late," CT says.

 

                "I was," York admits, a little fatalistic in his cheer.

 

                "I thought you were going to the bathroom?" Wash asks CT, and even York can hear the accusation in his tone.

 

                "Calm down, kid."

 

                "I was," CT says evenly. Wash frowns.

 

                "Connie."

 

                "Don't, Wash."

 

                He slumps a bit, but his jaw is clenched and when he sets his drink down on the bar it's loud enough to be heard over the faintly pleasant background music.

 

                "Lovers' quarrel?" asks South meanly. "And no Maine to break it up. Where is the big guy, anyway?"

 

                "Am I the only person who reads the emails?" North asks.

 

                "The Director said he could stay back on the ship," Wash explains. "Without Sigma he's only one half of a walking talking advertisement for the program, I guess."

 

                "Your biases are showing again," York says, but he's busy trying to imagine Maine down here with the rest of them, out of armor and silent without Sigma. It shouldn't be that hard to do-- there was Maine long before there was Sigma, and yet the image doesn't come easy. Sometimes they forget that as much as Sigma speaks for Maine now they're still two separate beings, knows that they've all been guilty of saying "Maine" when what they mean is Sigma, or what they mean is “both of you". York knows he's guilty of it. Wash probably isn't, and he suspects if CT's done it there's been nothing accidental in the act.

 

                CT clasps her hands together. "And as we all know, we aren't even meant to mention the AIs, let alone bring one down with us. Because obviously the people who okayed and funded the experimental project focused on integrating AI can't know anything about the AI. Makes perfect sense."

 

                "Yeah, yeah," says South when it becomes apparent that none of the rest of them are going to provide the obligatory disapproval. York has been trying very hard not to think about it. He's been trying very hard not to think about a lot of things, really. Easier that way.

 

                Wash blows out a breath. "I'm not gonna lie, I'm kind of jealous."

 

                It wasn't weird until someone drew attention to it - that pointed lack of Maine. He suspects Wash and CT fell together in the crowd by habit more than desire, and they're so clearly not talking about something it makes him cringe. Without the familiar hulking presence to round off the trifecta they seem unbalanced, but larger, too, like in absence of the physical comparison measure there's a stinging reminder that they're both incredibly dangerous in their own right.

 

                "And what's your excuse?," North asks York, returning to the earlier topic like a broken record. "Legitimate question about the email, guys. 19:00 on the dot. We were lucky to get any kind of shore leave at all; I don't think punctuality is a difficult thanks."

 

                "I read the damn email," York says.

 

                "All of it?" CT asks. York frowns, but meets her gaze.

 

                "Yeah."

 

                She brushes a hand through her hair, pointedly dragging fingers across the back of her neck. York can feel his expression harden. Delta presses soothingly into his mind, pushing _safe_ and _here_ and _calm_ and York doesn't know when that sort of thing stopped being an intrusion and started being his best goddamn grounding technique. He clears his throat, breathes in, then out, relaxes his shoulders. Turns back to North.

 

                "At least I came in with 'Allison' and 'Reggie'. Misery loves company," he says, meeting North's disapproval with a cocky smirk.

 

                "Wow, using their real names," Wash says, "What a clever and bitingly witty joke that absolutely never gets old."

 

                York reaches past CT for a high-five.

 

                "They can't actually think it's funny," CT says.

 

                "Knock knock," says North, flatly, instead of chiding them to be nice. South smoothly plucks the glass out of his hand and tips the contents into CT's drink. York approves-- the Dakotas learned to drink to get drunk like they learned to fold fitted sheets and balance a cheque book, and CT's being more subtle about her tension than Wash but it's still there.

 

                York glances over to the corner that Tex and Wyoming have claimed as prime lurking territory. He's not surprised they're playing the wallflowers-- Texas is painfully bad at charming small talk and Wyoming is painfully good at it. York's getting better about respecting his team's rainbow of unspoken childhood traumas.

 

                "So they're totally fucking," South says. CT calmly finishes her entire drink in three long swallows.

 

                "Or we could not make assumptions about our teammates’ sex lives," North suggests.

 

                "Just because they're friends doesn't mean they're fucking," says Wash, earnest enough that it comes out adorable rather than scolding.

 

                South glances pointedly between him and CT, which is worse because York knows for certain, thanks to one of those incredibly awkward 'you are on a lot of morphine and also bleeding everywhere, please stop talking' conversations, that they've never even considered sleeping together.

 

                "Also the moustache," CT offers, and York suddenly has a whole gallery of mental images he never ever wanted.

 

                "His moustache has secrets," South and North chorus. York can feel his eyebrows inching upward.

 

                "Besides," South continues. "I never said they were friends."

 

                "More like frenemies," Wash agrees.

 

                CT frowns. "That might be overstating things. I saw Tex threatening him with a laser cutter yesterday."

 

                "Almost frenemies," North says.

 

                "Renemies, if you will," York suggests.

 

                "I won't, thank you," North says.

 

                "Agent New York," says The Director.

 

                "Jesus Christ," says Wash. His voice squeaks.

 

                York turns to meet The Director's hard glare over North's shoulder. "Sir."

 

                "There are some people I'd like you to meet." He flicks a frustrated glare over the rest of them. "This isn't prom, people. Stop gossiping and start mingling. Politely."

 

                York is pretty sure The Director is going to have a stress-induced heart attack any day now. He follows the other man across the room, The Director lifting a hand to summon Carolina and her razorblade smile from where she's arguing with a young sergeant with a wrinkled uniform and half her ear missing.

 

                "Having fun?" York murmurs.

 

                "What the fuck was that little display earlier?"

 

                "I was late. What can I say? Happens to the best of us."

 

                "It wasn't cute, and it wasn't professional. Grow up, York."

 

                "Are you drinking water?" he asks, instead of continuing the argument.

 

                "Yeah. Keeping healthy is important when you're aiming for the top."

 

                "Since when has alcohol counted for any of us?"

 

                "Always--"

 

                "Bullshit."

 

                "Wyoming isn't drinking."

 

                "That's got nothing to do with physical health."

 

                "Florida threatened him into--"

 

                York shakes his head. "Florida's caffeine. Nobody likes working with a sniper who's got the jitters. Alcohol's 'cause he doesn't feel comfortable letting down his guard around strangers."

 

                "Hmm," says Carolina. "Ok." They come to a halt and York turns to face her head on, pushing for some sort of acknowledgement.

 

                "They're my people too," he says.

 

                By 'people I'd like you to meet' The Director actually meant a specific few Admirals who don't want anything more out of York and Carolina than the occasional 'Yes, Sir' and 'No, Sir'. Admirals become scientists, and they actually have to interact with them, and then even more so with the politicians-- although there's not much call for them but as figureheads, everybody's still got to put on a good show. York and Carolina are good at this, Carolina playing the perfect soldier to York's charmingly personable nice guy. They are archetypes that are close enough to the truth to allow for smoothly performative banter but false enough that everyone actually believes they're enjoying the conversations. This, at least, is a thing that the two of them are still very good at as a pair.

 

                "Second and third best tax-dollar enhanced death machines of all time, right here," York mutters once the Director has steered the first round of politicians away from them and toward York’s dear friend the open bar. "Spoilers, we know because of the artificial hierarchy enforced by the Director's omnipresent leaderboard in direct contradiction to every textbook you've ever read on building unit cohesion."

 

                "Speaking of," Carolina says, "Where the fuck is the rest of the top four?"

 

                York twitches. "Definitely not over in the same corner they've been all night probably plotting something that's going to make our lives very unpleasant. I've been trying not to think about it."

 

                "I'm surprised the Director's not showing off his new favorite."

 

                "Are you really?" York asks.

 

                "Thank you, CT."

 

                "I'm just saying."

 

                "Are they prying the paneling off that wall?" Carolina asks, resigned. York has to twist his head dramatically to the left to get a decent view of Texas and Wyoming and the potted plant they're failing to hide behind. "Yes. They're also apparently taking merc jobs in their spare time, in case you were unaware."

 

                She sighs, and casually adjusts her stance, shifting their positions just enough for York to keep an eye on the impending disaster without straining his neck. "I'm hoping if I ignore it long enough they'll either get bored or dead and it won't be my problem anymore."

 

                He shoves a hand through his hair. "Great. Thanks for keeping me in the loop."

 

                "I have it handled."

 

                "By not reporting them?"

 

                She cuts off something that might have some distant relation to a laugh. "What good would it do? Wyoming gets kicked out and Texas gets a slap on the wrist at most and then she's pissed at us for stealing her..."

 

                "Renemy," York provides, helpfully.

 

                "Or for all I know they both get commendations for engaging in live training and thinking outside of the box."

 

                York huffs out a sharp breath. "Isn't that the truth."

 

                Naturally, this is the point when someone appears suddenly on his left side and he does not throw his drink in reaction but it's a close thing, heavily influenced by Carolina's lack of reaction.

 

                "I thought you'd come down with a terrible and convenient illness?" Carolina says.

 

                The new woman --standard dress uniform, hunched protectively over her drink -- glares. "Apparently I have yet to terrify the medical staff into compliance."

 

                "Can't say I'm sorry."

 

                This thing where everyone is out of their armor is really fucking with York, but Delta answers his unspoken question before he can ask. _Pilot 479er_.

 

                And God damn if he isn't right, the ID picture from her personnel file flashing behind his eyelids thanks to Delta's connection to the database on the Mother of Invention. He should've recognized the voice, has spent enough time exchanging banter and following orders. Should've recognized the way Carolina's shoulders lose a fraction of the tension that seems ever-present these days, the way her body seems to curve toward the other woman -- ready to shield her but also ready to fall against her as support. Should've recognized that, at least, because it's the way Carolina doesn't change for him anymore.

 

                "You guys looked like you were having fun," 479er says innocently.

 

                "If by fun you mean I'm starting to hope Tex and Wyoming are planting a bomb in the wall, then yes," Carolina agrees.

 

                "Is that what they're doing?"

 

                "Don’t look," York says, consciously pushing muscle control over to Delta so that his jaw will unclench, his shoulders settle back to at ease. That's one of many things they never covered in AI class, the way it's not just your mind you're opening up in the long run, that feeling, so alien as to be indescribable, of something internal that is not you controlling your body. It doesn't come easy or natural to York or Delta, not yet, but with more practice and more trust he knows it will. And even weirder than that is the surety he has that such trust is inevitable.

 

                479er looks, of course. Wyoming catches her and smiles back, wide and bright and vicious. She keeps right on looking until he falls back, looks away. York thinks there's a reason she got assigned to their squad, wonders if she uses that stare when Carolina's trying to scare her off, too.

 

                "It's like training puppies," she says, throwing back the rest of her drink.

 

                Carolina snorts.

 

                "Nope, I'm right. All of you tiny adorable kind of stupid puppies. But bulldogs, or something that'll rip your face off if you aren't careful."

 

                "Bulldogs aren't inherently violent," actually," Carolina says, skipping tracks. "It's nurture, for the most part, that makes them vicious."

 

                The Director starts walking their way, because of course he does. York carefully doesn't look at Carolina, and starts walking in the opposite direction as fast as decorum will allow.

 

                He dodges a pair of probably scientists looking desperate for interesting conversation, a member of the venue staff trying to ask him a question about booking fees that is clearly intended for someone else, and Washington's ONI2 general. He does not dodge Florida.

 

                "York, you look upset," the shorter man says, a firm hand landing on his shoulder and digging in.

 

                "Me? Nah."

 

                Florida shakes his head. "Are you sure? Bottling up your feelings leads to miscommunication and miscommunication leads to your entire team dying in a catastrophic and entirely preventable nuclear explosion."

 

                York actually stops trying to politely extricate himself to stare. "That... escalated quickly."

 

                "Well," Florida says, with a fucking giggle. "Maybe a little. Now what's got you so twitchy?"

 

                "No," York says.

 

                "You don't have to talk to me, you know. The Counselor’s around here somewhere."

 

                "No," York repeats, a little helplessly, and then, "Wyoming and Texas are taking apart the wall."

 

                Florida frowns. "Is that a metaphor?"

 

                "It really, really isn't."

 

                Florida looks torn, but the momentary diversion gives York enough leverage to pull his shoulder out of his grip. "Go fix it," York says firmly, instead of punching the other Freelancer in the face. And then he runs away.

 

                _He was only trying to help,_ Delta says, somewhere between scolding and snippy.

 

                York doubts that. It's not the sort of thought he should be harboring, but Florida creeps him the fuck out, and he's pretty sure the rest of the team feels the same way. Wyoming likes the guy (York has not ruled out Stockholm syndrome and/or bribery) and the AIs are fond of him, but York believes firmly that anyone that nice is the same sort of someone who decides to kill everyone in their sleep for a chuckle.

 

                Team's already falling apart without your help, Director, he thinks bitterly. As if to prove his point CT brushes past in front of him, and when he looks back where she'd come from Wash is standing at the windows, jaw hard and eyes downcast. York could go over there, try to offer comfort, camaraderie. Probably shouldn't. CT's under suspicion for the information leak-- a case of guilty by virtue of being too good at her job, the connections between leaky computer systems and a hacking and coding specialist who consistently misses the leaderboard by a hair making a tidy solution for the investigators. It's been the unspoken elephant in the room for a while now and he knows that Wash and Tex and probably Carolina have had meetings with Internals about it. With that, and Maine spending more and more time choosing to communicate only with Sigma, York knows Wash is feeling abandoned and his self-confidence has taken a notable plunge because of it. Delta says York is experiencing the same phenomenon with Carolina and is lashing out at Wash because it comes more naturally than self-flagellation. York kindly tells D to shut the fuck up. Who Carolina sleeps with is her own business, always has been, and just because it's 479er instead of York right now doesn't mean he's jealous. Sometimes they fuck, sometimes they don't. It's a pattern. A system. They've had it worked out since before Freelancer was even a blip on ONI3's radar. They're partners. Top spots on the leaderboard before there was a leaderboard, falling into command of the squad by no official ranking, simply by virtue of being the only ones both best suited for the job and cocky enough to take it. But Carolina always goes after the best, in herself and in others, and York's not a challenge on the training floor like Texas, can't supply a snarky mouth to kiss and a fast get-away like 479er.

 

                _Suppose you'd say she's just being logical,_ he thinks. Delta flickers like moth wings over his thoughts, too nervous to land but still drawn to the light.

 

                _I would say that the word The Counselor used when I was implanted was partner._

 

                York winces, catches sight of North's hair over by the bar and starts heading in that direction. _Always there to watch my bad side._

 

                _I am here to serve._

 

                He settles in at the bar, orders a glass of water, bullshits with North who's right on that cusp of drunkenness before funny turns mean. Carolina and The Director are still working the crowd, but neither of them come looking for him. The wall behind the potted plant has been restored to its former glory and Texas and Wyoming are wandering around like nothing ever happened. Nothing blows up, which is actually more frightening in its ambiguity. Another hour passes, and North has gone silent and still because he is still a professional, maybe more than most of them in the long run. York makes friends with the other members of the 'hold the bar up' brigade, people bored or stressed or nervous enough to need the distraction and low enough on the food chain that they can afford to take it.

 

                Eventually 479er sidles up, smirky and mischievous if you don't watch the way her hands clench and her eyes never stray towards Carolina. "Hey, you two. The Get The Fuck Out of Here bus is leaving in five, anybody who wants to skip out had better be aboard."

 

                York does a check of the room-- Carolina and Florida still working the crowd, Wash at a different window, staring out at a trellis weighed down by deep blue and purple flowers. Everybody else is lingering around the entrance, obviously trying to be subtle about it. He pushes North toward the pilot. "You can have this one."

 

                North straightens his jacket, shakes his head a bit. "I can stay, if--"

 

                York waves him off. "Nah. Go on. Take some painkillers, drink some water."

 

                "That's usually my line," North chuckles half-heartedly, but he starts toward the doors with no further prompting.

 

                "How about you, York? Ready to make a run for it while The Director's distracted?"

 

                York glances again towards Carolina, thinks about creeping out through the silent, heavily carpeted back halls with the rest of his team, tired and laughing about it for once, bringing his people home from a battle field with no physical injuries. Imagines the walk to the Pelican through the cool summer night, past the expensive fountains and across damp cobblestone still warm from the long day's heat of the planet's two suns. He imagines lines being drawn.

 

                "Nah," he says. "I'd better weather the storm."

 

                "Suit yourself," she says, and leaves him alone with his water.

 

                When they leave they're actually decently clandestine about it, but York catches the Counselor standing near Wash at the window watching them the entire time. York waits until the other man notices his stare and meets his gaze head on, an acknowledgement. He refuses to blink, doesn't look away until there's a brush of movement up against his left shoulder and he twists around in response.

 

                "Just me,” Carolina says.

 

                "Sorry."

 

                She jerks her head in a quick nod. "Surprised you're still here. I thought you snuck out with the others."

 

                York glances away, folds his hands behind his back. Delta hums quietly in the back of his head, the steady thrum of running calculations calming to them both. "Yeah," he says. "I know you did."

 

 


End file.
